Stars to Guide You
by AJ Kline
Summary: The greatest Dragonborn of all returns from Aetherius to do battle with Alduin the World-Eater. Martin Septim is on a mission from Akatosh to ensure the safety of Tamriel once again. Skyrim main quest spoilers. Sequel to my Oblivion fic "Of Noblest Heart"—I strongly recommend reading that first for continuity's sake. T for some harsh language, blood, and character deaths.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

In Which It Begins

"Who're you talking to?"

Martin Septim looked around. He was not alone in his cell. A tall, lean man looked up at him from a bench. He looked no older than sixteen.

"No one," Martin lied.

"Oh, come on now," the stranger pressed. "We're all friends here, yeah? All two of us, I mean."

Martin cracked a small smile. "Just a prayer to someone I hold dear."

"All right," the stranger said, grinning widely. "Good to know you're not totally crazy."

Martin turned to sit on the ground, opposite his companion. The young man slid off the bench to join him, looking out the window.

"Almost thought you were Altmer, in the moonlight. High cheekbones," he added, seeing Martin's look of confusion. "I'm terrible. My apologies if I offended you."

"Not at all."

The stranger turned his attention back to Martin, looking his face over with interest. "Are you from High Rock? The last thing a man should think about should be home, and the people he left there."

"No. I'm from... Bruma, in Cyrodiil," Martin said. "No family."

"Well, what're you doing all the way up here in Falkreath?" The stranger laughed. "Bit far from home, aren't you?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"I guess you were arrested for crossing the border, huh?"

"I... guess so," Martin lied again. Being in the presence of such a talkative young man was trying on his already strained mind.

"Hah. Me too," the stranger admitted. "Only I was going the other way."

"Going into Cyrodiil?"

"Yeah. I hate politics," the stranger admitted. "But running away from conflict only makes me a coward. A lousy one, at that. Hafta face the music now, though."

"Face the music?"

The stranger studied him carefully. His eyes were a bright, clear blue, a welcome sight in a dark cell. "We're going to execution tomorrow."

Martin's heart sank. "Execution?"

"You really don't know anything about Skyrim, now do you?" The stranger stretched out his lanky arms. "Stormcloaks and Imperials. None of that ring a bell?"

Martin shook his head. "I just... had an errand to run."

"An errand?" The stranger outright laughed. "People still run errands nowadays? What kinda errand took you from Bruma all the way up here?"

"A very important one."

The stranger crossed his arms, still grinning awkwardly. "Who are you, exactly?"

Martin paused for a moment, considering his answer carefully. "My name is Jean."

"Yeah, but who are you?" the stranger pressed. "Breton from Cyrodiil in positively ancient armor. I'd love to hear your story before we go and die."

Martin shook his head. "It is a long and uninteresting story. You would never believe me, even if I did tell you."

"But it's your story. And hey, we're gonna die anyway," the stranger said conversationally. "We can talk about ourselves, or we can count the moments left in the moon."

"Who are you?" Martin diverted.

"I'm Desmond Ice-Fist," he said, inclining his head slightly. "Arrested for attempted border-crossing. Born in Windhelm, dying in Helgen."

"You hardly look old enough to be on this sort of adventure alone," Martin pointed out. Desmond laughed.

"Just turned seventeen last month. I'm just a kid. Didn't wanna join the Stormcloaks, didn't wanna join the Imperials, just wanted to get out and be happy somewhere."

"An admirable dream." Martin leaned back against the wall. "And you thought you would find it in Cyrodiil?"

"I thought I wouldn't find it here," Desmond corrected. "Too much conflict. Escalating war, high king killed, I've had enough of it."

"The high king of Skyrim?"

"Yeah. Ulfric Stormcloak challenged him and won," Desmond said. "Where've you been?"

"Like I said. You would never believe me," Martin mumbled. The sun was beginning to rise, weak rays of light streaming through the bars on the window. In the growing light, Martin could see more of Desmond's face. He was lean, lanky, still getting used to his skin. Stringy blond hair, and a perpetual grin.

"So tell me a story, then," Desmond said. "Doesn't have to be true."

"I would rather not lie."

"Then don't!" Desmond laughed. "You're really difficult to talk to, you know?"

"How can you be so happy, if we are to die today?" Martin asked.

"Eh. Sovngarde may not await me, but something does." Desmond shrugged, leaning against the bench. "I'll decide whether or not I like it when I get there. But, that doesn't matter. I'd just rather not die upset."

* * *

The jailer dragged Martin and Desmond into a cart with three other prisoners in the early dawn. Martin looked frantically around for Esbern, his only other acquaintance, but he seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth. The cart began to move, taking them to their deaths.

"You... are you...?" Another prisoner looked at Martin with interest. "Nah, can't be. All you Bretons look the same."

"What do you mean?" Martin asked, uninterested.

"Look like an old soul, is all," the prisoner said. "But I guess we've all got a lot on our minds."

"What're you done in for?" Desmond asked the strangers.

"Stealing a horse," one man with dark hair grumbled.

"Imperial ambush," said the other blond man.

"These Imperial bastards can't get anything straight," the horse-thief snapped. "Skyrim was fine until you came alone, empire was nice and lazy. This isn't the way to deal with petty thieves like me."

"Yeah, this is how you deal with border-crossers like Jean and me," Desmond put in sagely. "What about...?" Desmond fell silent, his eyes growing wide. "You're Ulfric Stormcloak!"

Martin looked around at the third man in the cart with them. In addition to having his hands bound, there was a tight gag around his mouth, preventing him from speaking.

"Careful how you talk to him!" the blond stranger said. "That's the rightful high king of Skyrim you're talking to."

Desmond sighed. "Wish I was older, and cared about politics enough to have a real opinion. Most I can do is give you my sympathies. No one deserves to die like this."

"But... if they've captured you," the horse-thief started, "you're the leader of the rebellion. If they've captured you... oh gods, where are they taking us?"

"I don't know where they're taking us, but wherever it is, Sovngarde might await," Desmond said nonchalantly.

The horse-thief clearly disapproved of Desmond's attitude, and turned to Martin. "So. What do you think about all this?"

Caught off guard, Martin replied, "It is hardly my place to comment on politics that are getting me killed."

"True enough..."

"Where are you from?" the blond stranger asked.

"Rorikstead," answered the horse-thief. "But what does that matter?"

The stranger shook his head. "Ralof, of Riverwood. What about you two?"

Desmond shrugged. "Desmond Ice-Fist. Windhelm native."

Ulfric nodded at Desmond. Was it approval or disdain? Behind all the dirt on his face and the gag in his mouth, it was hard to tell.

"Er. Jean. Greensmith," Martin lied, plucking a name out of thin air. "Of Bruma."

"Bruma?" Ralof laughed. "Bit lost, aren't you, friend?"

The cart entered into a city, guards and soldiers shouting. Their little cart passed through the stone walls, gates ramming shut behind them. Just off the path, Martin could see a few soldiers on horseback, talking to what appeared to be elven soldiers.

"Funny. When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe," Desmond said.

"Welcome to Helgen... I used to be sweet on a girl from here," Ralof said wistfully. "I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with the juniper berries mixed in."

The men fell silent. What lives had they led, that brought them here? Which action had condemned them to die within these walls? A moment of weakness, a lifetime of walking the edge of a knife? Or just placing oneself in the wrong place at the wrong time? The horse began slowing down as it approached a wall. Gathered all around were men and women dressed in brown leather armor. Several held pen and parchment, and all were armed to the teeth.

"Why are we stopping?" the horse-thief asked suddenly, the cart finally coming to a halt.

"The only reason they have to stop," Desmond said gravely, the dark tone in his voice the first indication that Martin had ever heard from him that something could be amiss.

"The end of the line," Ralof confirmed. The five men dropped out of the cart, and stood facing a pair of guards. A Redguard woman was directing soldiers to groups of prisoners, dividing them up and sending them around the encampment. Her Nord companion held their list, and called out names.

"Ulfric Stormcloak."

The gagged man stepped forward, his posture dignified. The guards took him to the side, near a small group of other prisoners waiting near a stone block and a man with a large, heavy-looking halberd.

"Ralof of Riverwood."

Ralof stepped forward, his face grim. He, too, was sent beside Ulfric. Martin shifted his weight, heart racing. This was surely not the way things were meant to go. Was it? Was he to die a martyr? For what, though? He barely understood the conflict at hand! What was he to do?

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

"You can't do this!" the horse-thief insisted, struggling against his bonds. "I'm not with them!" He ran, hands still tied.

"HALT! Archers!" cried a Redguard woman in Imperial armor. The archers in the tower made short work of Lokir; he fell to the ground in moments. "Anyone else feel like running?" the woman snarled angrily. A chilling hush fell over the encampment. The Nord, looking shaken but not sorry, resumed his duties.

"Desmond Ice-Fist of Windhelm."

Desmond muddled forward, for the first time looking legitimately terrified. Martin supposed it was his youth that made him laugh in the face of death only as long as death did not stare back.

"And... who are you?" The guard looked at him, confused.

"I... My name is Jean Greensmith," Martin lied again.

"Jean Greensmith, huh. You from Daggerfall, Breton? Fleeing from some court intrigue?"

_You could say that,_ Martin thought bitterly to himself.

"What do we do?" the guard asked the armed Redguard woman. She appeared not to have been paying attention, and was engaged in herding the prisoners around what Martin could only assume was a chopping block. "He's not on the list."

"List be damned. He gets the block," she said, her voice fierce and decisive.

The Nord looked shocked, but acceded. "I... I'm sorry. I'll make sure your remains are shipped back to High Rock, friend."

"Friend, indeed," Desmond muttered as Martin joined him in the crowd of prisoners slated for execution. Desmond seemed to be trying to retreat into his shoulders, slouched over and timid. "I, I don't know what to think anymore." Martin couldn't blame him. The whirlwind of activity around him seemed to be racing at twice the natural pace, speeding along towards their deaths.

A priest was performing their last rites, commending their souls to Aetherius, a blessing from the Divines. A man was kneeling before the block. A few powerful-looking guards were shouting at Ulfric, who was powerless to respond. The prisoners were chattering softly. With a flash of silver, all went quiet once again. The man's head parted company with his body in a swift instant and a burst of scarlet. Desmond had turned away, eyes squeezed shut in terror.

"All right. Breton. You're next."

Someone shoved Martin forward. White-hot fear ran through his body as he was forced down before the block. The executioner wore a dark black hood over his face. So much the better, Martin supposed.

He turned to look back at Desmond. His eyes were fixed firmly on the ground, lips moving ever so slightly. Was he praying? Martin was forced further down to the ground, against the block, eyes turned away from the prisoners. The executioner raised the halberd. _No. NO! It can't end this way!_

"What is that thing?" someone shouted.

The fierce beating of powerful wings blew against the crowd. A great roar pierced the sky as a dragon landed on the castle tower behind them. It let out a sharp cry, aimed directly at the assemblage of prisoners and guards. The force of the dragon's very voice pushed everyone against the ground, sending buildings toppling to the ground. The executioner dropped the halberd; Martin pushed against the block and rolled out of the way as an intense heat washed over the camp, blazing fire erupting around them.

Everything went hazy as Martin shoved himself to his feet, hands still bound.

"Follow me! I can cut you loose inside, let's go!"

Vision blurred, he blindly followed the sound of Desmond's voice. They rushed into the already decimated remains of a castle tower. Ulfric Stormcloak was there as well, talking about the dragon. Alduin. The World-Eater. Something was familiar, on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't quite place it.

"Come on! We have to keep moving!" Desmond said, grabbing Martin's attention again. "Come on, Jean!"

"Can the legends be true?" Ralof asked, as all the prisoners untied each other's bindings.

"Legends don't burn down villages," Ulfric said darkly.

"What does it take to kill this monster?" Guards were shouting at each other, archers firing rapidly into the air as the dragon proceeded to raze houses and level towers with the barest touch of its tail.

"We have to go. Let's move!" Ulfric barked.

"Up the stairs, come on!" Ralof made his way up the stairs, with Desmond, Ulfric, and Martin in hot pursuit. A blast of heat came through the stone wall as the dragon breathed a stream of flames through the tower. The force of the imploding wall sent them reeling backwards, tumbling down several steps until the onslaught of flames ended. Ralof cautiously peered through the hole the dragon's breath had created. He hurriedly motioned to Desmond and Martin.

"See that inn on the other side?" he asked quickly. "Jump across, we'll follow as soon as we can!"

"But—"

"Go, now! We'll follow!" Ralof snapped. Desmond, eyes wide, made a mad leap out of the building and into the burning remains of a building. Martin, fighting valiantly to keep his muscles from seizing up with fear, did the same.

They crashed into a burning column, causing the roof to creak and fall in on them.

"RUN!" Desmond sprinted for the opposite end of the building, the lack of walls making the search for a door unnecessary. The intense heat of dragon fire scorched the ground as they reached open air again. The ground shook as the beast landed, facing down a small boy.

"Haming! I need you to come here!" the guard in charge of the executions was shouting, an elderly man taking refuge behind a burnt building. The little boy looked frozen in fear as the dragon advanced, menacing, inhaling.

Picking up a wooden shield, Desmond raced out in front of the boy, blocking the stream of dragon fire. "Come on, boy!" Desmond shouted. Together, Desmond and Haming raced back to the guard and the elder, shock and tears on the young boy's face. Desmond tossed aside the burning shield, shaking the heat off his arm. Within moments, the shield had burned to cinders.

"Gunnar, take care of the boy!" the guard shouted. "I have to find General Tullius and join the defense!"

"Gods guide you, Hadvar," the old man said, taking the shield that Desmond offered him.

"Still alive, prisoners?" Hadvar asked, running after the dragon as it took to the air again. "Keep with me if you want to stay that way!"

Blindly following, Desmond and Martin ran after Hadvar, the buildings collapsing around them.

"Stay close to the wall!" Hadvar barked back at them, flattening himself against it.

"What? Wh—"

Before they had time to question it, the dragon landed, the points on its wings digging into the brick and mortar. Desmond and Martin slammed back into the wall, the stone battlements crumbling under the dragon's weight and power.

As it flew away again, Hadvar ran towards the main part of the keep. A familiar looking face was also running towards it.

"Ralof! You damn traitor, out of my way!" Hadvar shouted.

"Not a chance!" Ralof snapped. "We're escaping!"

"Fine!" Hadvar spat. "I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

Hadvar and Ralof split off, heading in different directions.

"Follow me!" they both shouted. Without hesitation, Desmond ran after Ralof. After a split-second hesitation, Martin followed him as well.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two:

In Which Things Just Are

There was an unsettling peace inside the keep, the noise of the outside battle sounding very far away. Martin and Desmond leaned against the walls of the keep, out of breath. Ralof was examining the dead body of a fallen soldier, dressed in blue.

"We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother," he said gravely. He stood up "Take his gear. He won't be needing it."

Desmond shrugged. "I don't use weapons," he explained. "Jean?"

Martin shook his head. "I... no. I am no good with swords," he said finally. This... this was all too much. Was this what his everyday life would be like now?

Ralof frowned at them. "Suit yourselves. Looks like we're the only ones who made it back."

Desmond crossed his arms, worried. "Do you think... was that really?"

"A dragon," Ralof confirmed. "The harbingers of the end times." Ralof drew his axe, starting down a corridor of the keep. "We better get moving. Let's get out of here before the dragon brings the whole damn tower down on our heads."

The inner halls of the keep were quiet, winding around and around. Ralof led them through largely empty armories, molding storage rooms, and endless more stone hallways until they reached what appeared to be a prison.

"Gods above," Desmond breathed.

"It's a torture room," Ralof said darkly, raising his axe. Two Imperials were facing down a single rebel soldier. "FOR SKYRIM!"

Ralof charged at the Imperials, hacking at limbs and flesh. The Imperials stood no chance, but the rebel had already bled out.

"Damn it! We're too late," Ralof cursed, looking around the torture chamber. Desmond peered cautiously into a cell.

"There's something in there," he piped up. A dead mage was in the cell, a small apothecary's satchel and what looked like a spellbook beside him.

"Hm. Try to get it open with these," Ralof said, thrusting a handful of lockpicks at them. "We might need whatever's inside."

Desmond passed the lockpicks off to Martin, who, confused, tried to open the door.

The lockpick fell neatly into place as what Martin supposed was muscle memory took over. Gently, he adjusted the pick until the tumblers fell into place, and a quick rotation of the lock was all it took to swing the door open. Martin wondered if picking locks was really that easy, or if it had simply become second nature for grand larcenist Jean Christophe in his life. Perhaps reincarnating into the body of the Gray Fox had its benefits, after all.

"Nicely done," Ralof commented, seeming impressed.

Desmond turned his nose up at the mage, taking the satchel and leaving the rest. Martin picked up the spellbook and, reluctantly, the dead man's scarf. Much as he hated to admit it, he really wasn't used to the cold of Skyrim. He leafed through the spellbook, residual sparks flying from his fingertips as he recalled the lessons he'd learned in his youth.

"Jean, here." Desmond was rooting through the satchel. "Bunch of nothing, but you might need this. It'll have to do."

Martin took a steel dagger from his companion, turning it over in his hands. "Thank you."

"All done? Let's get moving then." Ralof led them further into the keep, the stone building giving way to an underground cavern infested with spiders.

Ralof charged ahead, axe waving wildly. Desmond contributed with an impressive display of fisticuffs, knocking several spiders together and downing them all. Martin hesitantly provided support from behind, sending off sparks and flames at the straggling survivors.

"I HATE those damn things," Desmond said miserably. "Too many eyes, you know?"

Finally, the caverns gave way to a bright light.

"That's the end of it. I knew we'd make it out of here," Ralof said, running towards the mouth of the cave. Martin breathed a sigh of relief.

As they ventured out of the cavern and into the light, the adrenaline began to wear off. Martin looked around at their new surroundings, bright in the daylight.

"Get down!"

Desmond dragged Martin down by the collar. The great dragon flew over their heads, the wind from his wings nearly blowing them over. Sheer panic began to take over Martin's senses as the gravity of their situation at last engulfed his mind.

"We... that was..."

"I've never seen one either," Desmond said, a note of shock still in his voice. "But hey... we're alive."

"Come with me," Ralof suggested. "My sister Gerdur runs the mill in Riverwood. She can help us out." Ralof started down the path. Still in shock, Martin and Desmond followed.

The walk to Riverwood was mostly quiet. Ralof paused a few times along the way, pointing out something interesting in the distance or commenting on what had just happened. Martin was too busy nearly hyperventilating to properly listen. What on earth had just happened? Nearly beheaded, a dragon attack—how were these two so calm in the aftermath? They'd all nearly died! If he'd been just a few feet to either side, the dragon could have blown the life right out of him in the tower, or pierced through his skull with the tips of his wings, or...

"Come on, Gerdur is probably working at the mill."

Ralof's voice floated through a haze, bringing Martin back to attention. They had been walking for what felt like days. A small town lay before them, mercifully quiet compared to the decimated place from which they came.

"A dragon! I'm telling you it was a dragon!" shouted an older woman from her front porch.

"What is it now, mother?" a young man sighed, turning to her.

"I'm telling you, I saw a dragon..."

Desmond and Martin followed Ralof around to a large lumber mill the likes of which Martin had never seen in Cyrodiil. They hung back as Ralof went to greet his sister.

"Ralof! Mara's mercy, is it safe for you to be here?" The blonde woman looked much like her brother, dusting sawdust off of her gloves.

"Gerdur, I'm fine."

"Who is this? Comrades?" She looked towards Martin and Desmond. Martin suddenly felt self-conscious.

"Not yet. But I owe them my life." Ralof looked back at them, smiling.

"What happened in Helgen? We heard that Ulfric had been captured," Gerdur continued worriedly.

"Let's talk somewhere private," Ralof suggested, waving them to a small patch of grass, further out from the rest of the citizens. Gerdur immediately turned around, heading towards a tree stump in the middle of the grass.

"Hod! Come down here!" she shouted to a man working atop the lumber mill.

"What is it now?" Hod's voice answered. "Sven drunk on the job again?"

"Just get down here."

Martin and Desmond stood awkwardly beside Ralof as they waited for Hod to arrive. Gerdur's eyes did not leave them, raking over every inch of the men who had helped her brother.

"Now Ralof, what's going on?" Hod asked, pulling off his gloves and nodding quickly to them. "You all look a mess. You're burned to hell... Are you all right?"

"I can't remember when I last slept. The Imperials ambushed us outside Darkwater Crossing," Ralof said. "That was two days ago now. We stopped in Helgen and I thought it was all over. Had us lined up at the headsman's block. But then, out of nowhere, a dragon attacked!"

Gerdur's gasp at the headsman's block was quickly doubled at the mention of a dragon. "You don't mean a real, live...?"

"I can hardly believe it myself, and I was there," Ralof said, shaking his head and sitting down on the tree stump. "Strange as it sounds, we'd be dead if it hadn't been for that dragon." Ralof paused, a look of uncertainty and fear on his face. "Are we really the only ones to come back?"

"No one else has come up from the south road," Gerdur said quietly, crossing her arms.

"Good. Maybe we can lay up for a while. I hate to put your family in danger, Gerdur, but..." Ralof broke off, looking towards Martin and Desmond. Desmond shook his head quickly.

"We, we do not mean to be a burden," Martin put in quickly, finding his voice again at last.

"Nonsense. You stay here. Let me worry about those rotten Imperials," Gerdur said, disdain in her voice for the entire faction. "Stay as long as you like, any friend of Ralof's is a friend of mine. If there's anything else you need, let me know."

"Thanks sister. I knew I could count on you," Ralof said, sounding relieved.

"Did anyone else escape? Did Ulfric?" Gerdur asked, intensely worried.

"Don't worry. I'm sure he's fine."

Martin shifted uncomfortably behind Ralof. He had no time to waste in Riverwood, and he knew it.

"Is something wrong, Jean?" Desmond asked. "Got somewhere to be, have you?"

"I, er. Actually, perhaps you can help me," he said meekly. After all, he had to start somewhere.

"Oh? Speak up, then. What do you need?"

"Have any of you seen a man named Esbern?"

"Who?"

Gerdur and Ralof stared at him blankly. "I don't recognize that name," Gerdur said. "But, Skyrim is a big country. Ask around, you're sure to find something sooner or later."

Martin's spirits fell, even though he had been expecting this response. "I see." What had happened to Esbern? How long had it been since his arrest? Martin no longer trusted his judgment of time. An eternity ago, he'd buried a flower in the snow. An eternity further, and he'd been Emperor for a brief, heartwrenching instant. Another, and he'd been a quiet, humble priest of Akatosh. He wasn't sure how many more eternities he could take.

"There's something you can do for us, though, if you're heading out of here," Gerdur said. "Jarl Balgruuf in Whiterun won't have heard about the attack yet. Could you go there and ask him to send troops to Riverwood? If the dragon attacks us, we won't be prepared."

"Of course," said Martin. Gerdur smiled.

"Why don't you stay the night with us?" she asked. "You've had a long day. Rest up, and then head out to Whiterun."

The little party followed Hod back to his house. The inside was modest, but smelled of spices and cooking. A few beds lined the wooden walls, a bear's pelt carpeting the middle of the cold stone floor.

The instant his head hit the pillow, Martin fell fast asleep.

* * *

Desmond woke him up the next day, having gathered some basic supplies from the shops in town. He presented Martin with another knife, this one without an identifying crest on it.

"For the journey," he said. "Never saw you use the one I gave you back... back there."

"I had no reason to," Martin said, also unwilling to bring up Helgen more than was necessary. "Thank you."

Before their departure, Hod gave them a map of Skyrim, and laid out their path for them. "Just follow the road from here, really," he said with a shrug. "You can't miss it."

Nodding their thanks, they set off for Whiterun.

"So who's Esbern?" Desmond asked, once they were well under way. Martin stared ahead, thinking.

"A friend of mine," he said simply.

"Do you ever really talk, or do you just say things?" Desmond scuttled ahead a few steps, turning to walk backwards and speak to him. "I get the feeling I can't rightly trust you."

"You have no reason to think that," Martin said.

"Jean. Do you trust me?" Desmond asked.

"Yes."

"Who is Esbern?"

"Someone I need to find," Martin said.

"Are you going to ditch me in Whiterun?"

Martin paused for a brief moment. "No."

"Sure?"

"Completely."

Satisfied enough, Desmond turned to face front again, gazing into the wilderness. "Meeting two Jarls in two days. I almost feel special."

"Does no one speak with the Jarls?" Martin asked, still trying to get a sense of what Skyrim was like.

"Oh, they do. Just not people like us," Desmond said. "Little peasant like me never so much as glimpsed Ulfric Stormcloak before yesterday."

Martin frowned, nearly tripping over an overgrown tree root in his thoughtful state. "Why not?"

"You can't just ASK why people don't see the Jarl. It's like... how many people get to see the Emperor? Or, like, the gods?" Desmond shook his head disapprovingly. "Jarls are important, and we're not. Things just are the way they are here."

"And the war?" Martin asked bluntly.

"That's different."

"How?" he persisted. Desmond pulled another face, scrunching up his features with intense disdain.

"Don't ask ME about the war. I'm hardly the one to ask, I was running! Remember? S'why we met in the first place," Desmond pointed out.

They fell back into silence. Martin reached back into his rucksack, leafing through Amelie Rose's journal. His journal now, he supposed. What did all this mean? If he couldn't find Esbern, perhaps he'd never know.

After an hour or two of walking, a great wall rose out of the horizon. Several tall buildings populated the walled-in city, an extensive guard tower network set up along the edges.

"Have you ever been to Whiterun?" Martin asked.

"Nope," Desmond said. "Better late than never, I suppose. At least they've got a wall.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three:

In Which The Boys Go Dungeon Diving

"Halt."

A guard approached them at the gates to the city. "City's closed with the dragon about," said the guard.

Martin frowned; Desmond looked sideways at him. "What do we do?" he asked. "We can't just give up."

"So we push on," Martin said, stepping forward. "We have business with the Jarl about the dragon."

"So does everyone," the guard said.

"We've come from Helgen," Desmond supplied helpfully. "And Riverwood. We need reinforcements or that thing's gonna decimate half the hold."

"Hmph. Fine. But I'll be keeping my eye on you," the guard said, nodding to the gateman. The wooden doors swung inward, allowing them into the city.

"Thank you," Martin said, passing the posted guards.

"Watch yourselves."

Whiterun proved to be a breezy, homey place. The warmth of the sun on the cobblestone pavement made the place look and feel brighter and more optimistic than Riverwood. Something about the citizens felt more relaxed as well. Perhaps the security of the wall and posted guards lent a sense of ease to the city.

"How do we reach the Jarl?" Martin asked, looking wide-eyed around the city. It was an architectural marvel, really. The city seemed divided into tiers, almost layers. It reminded him a little bit of Bruma. He supposed, since it'd been right on the border, it made sense for Bruma to be influenced by Nordic architecture.

"See that big building?" Desmond asked, pointing to the highest layer. "That'll be Dragonsreach, I think. Jarls' palace. If he's not there, I dunno what to tell you."

"Fair enough." They moved past an open-air market full of curious would-be consumers, under a withering tree, and up several more flights of stone steps before they reached the palace. "What if he kicks us back out?" Martin asked.

"Haven't thought of that," Desmond said, his cheery demeanor right back in place. "We'll just have to not get kicked back out, then."

"That hardly sounds like a solid plan."

"Sounded more solid than whatever you were thinking," Desmond shot back, holding open the door. "C'mon, before it gets too late."

The Jarl's palace was almost oppressively warm, great tables laid with food and drink lining the hall. A few servants swept the floors while people of dubious importance talked and laughed above. The glint of gold and the heat from the fire made shades of yellow and orange dance on the polished wood. A Dark Elf approached them, weapon drawn.

"Whoa!" Desmond recoiled, fists raised. "Hey!"

"Hands down, boy," she barked at them. "The Jarl isn't taking visitors."

"No need for that," Desmond said, laughing nervously and refusing to lower his hands. "We've just come about the dragon."

"So has everyone," the Dark Elf replied, an irritated note to her voice.

"No, no, you misunderstand," Martin said quickly, herding Desmond behind him and trying to salvage the situation. "We come from Riverwood, they need reinforcements."

"So does everyone," the elf snapped, growing more and more on edge.

"Look, Helgen's already in pieces, you wanna see that happen to Riverwood too?" Desmond said, leaning out from behind Martin. "Last we saw, dragon was headed that way."

"You saw the dragon?" Now interested, the elf lowered her weapon slightly. "How?"

"We were at Helgen," Martin explained. "We escaped to Riverwood and were asked to come here, to request reinforcements from the Jarl to fight it off."

She sheathed her sword. "Fine. That explains why the guards let you in. The Jarl will want to speak with you personally." She turned back the way she had come, motioning for them to follow.

Looking stunned, Desmond grinned and hopped up the stairs after her. "This is kinda fun," he said, still sounding nervous.

"Who's this, Irileth?" a man seated in a throne asked.

"Two survivors from Helgen," said the elf.

"Helgen? So you've seen the dragon with your own eyes?" the Jarl asked, sitting up.

"Got a nice view from the headsman's block," Desmond said. "Didn't we—"

"They were going to execute Ulfric Stormcloak when the dragon attacked and interrupted the proceedings," Martin explained, whacking Desmond's chest to make him shut up.

Balgruuf did not look pleased. "I should have guessed Ulfric would be mixed up in this."

"Last we saw, the dragon was headed this way," Desmond tacked on. "We've come from Riverwood to request reinforcements."

Irileth stepped forward. "I will send a detachment to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger, if that thing's still around."

An Imperial man that had been fidgeting for the past several minutes by the Jarl's throne finally spoke up. "But my Jarl—"

Balgruuf nodded to the elf, and had a few quiet words with his agitated advisor before addressing her again. "Irileth, send the troops to Riverwood. I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people."

Desmond fidgeted anxiously by Martin's side. "So, er. Jarl Balgruuf—"

"You've done us a great service," Balgruuf said as Irileth left. "You've sought me out on your own initiative, and I thank you. But perhaps, there is more that you can do for us. Something suited to your particular talents."

_Talents?_ Martin thought. What talents did he have that he'd shown the Jarl beyond a native command of language and the ability to not be easily killed? He turned to Desmond, who shrugged.

"Sure."

"Come with me, we'll speak with my court wizard, Farengar. He's been looking into a matter related to these dragons, and... rumors of dragons."

Balgruuf descended from his throne and led them through the room to a side area. Maps and books littered the little nook, a table strewn with research items and scrolls of paper sat in the center. A man in blue robes was consulting an enchanting table, and did not turn around as they arrived.

"Farengar, I've found someone who can help with your little... dragon project," Balgruuf said. "Go ahead and fill them in with all the details."

Farengar remained engaged in his work at the enchanting altar as he spoke. "So, the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?"

"Er," said Martin, unsure what else to say. "Yes."

"Ah yes, he must be referring to my work with the dragons. Yes, I could use someone to fetch something for me."

"Fetch?" Desmond asked flatly. "We're no one's errand boy."

"Well, when I say fetch, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there," Farengar corrected, turning around.

That did not sound fun. "What does this have to do with dragons?" Martin asked, slightly confused.

"Ah, no mere brute mercenary. A thinker—perhaps a scholar?" Farengar tried. Martin shrugged. "Many people have dismissed the dragons as a fantasy. One sure mark of a fool is to dismiss anything he doesn't understand as an impossibility."

"So what do we have to do?" Desmond asked, bored with the explanation.

"I learned of a stone tablet said to be housed in Bleak Falls Barrow, said to contain a map of dragon burial sites. Go to the barrow, find this tablet, and bring it to me. Simplicity itself." Farengar nodded to them, returning to his table.

Martin stared. How highly did Farengar place in the court of Whiterun, again? He certainly acted with a degree of expectation and entitlement to rival the Jarl's. "Right."

"Bleak Falls Barrow?" Martin asked, checking the map Hod had given them.

"S'right by Riverwood," Desmond mumbled, pointing it out. "We probably walked right past it."

"At least it's not far for you to go," Farengar said. "Off with you, the Jarl is not a patient man. And neither am I, come to think of it."

"We need this quickly, before it's too late," Balgruuf added. "Succeed, and you will be rewarded."

With another shrug, Desmond inclined his head to the two men of Dragonsreach. "We'll be back when we've found it," he said. "Right?"

"Er, right."

Feeling awkward, Martin followed Desmond out of the palace. Was this how all adventures started? Prison, then being ordered around? Retrospectively, he supposed, that was how a lot of things ended up getting done.

* * *

"Get—Get me out of here!" the Dark Elf shouted, struggling against the webs.

"Hang on!" Desmond pulled out his dagger, hacking at the stringy, sticky silk. Martin took his own dagger and carefully freed the man's limbs.

"Almost there... it's coming loose..." The elf dropped to his feet. "Hahaa!"

"Hey!"

The elf took off running. "Why should I share the treasure with anyone?!" he shouted over his shoulder.

Desmond and Martin looked at each other. "Treasure?" Desmond asked.

"There _were_ bandits outside," Martin pointed out. "He must be one of them."

"True."

They advanced a little further into the ruin of Bleak Falls Barrow. The place was more or less deserted, but still altogether unsettling. Thus far, nothing had gone as expected, due in part to Martin's complete lack of expectations. To his great surprise and shock, they found the elf's corpse in a large room, surrounded by the reanimated dead that had been interred there. They turned towards Martin and Desmond's footsteps, raising their ancient weaponry and charging.

"Draugr!" Desmond shouted, immediately switching to a fighting stance.

Martin fired up his spells, blasting several of the undead back into their coffins. Desmond finished off what remained with a sound roundhouse punch. The room fell quiet.

"So what treasure is he on about?" Desmond asked, kneeling down to search the dead elf.

"_Desmond_," Martin started, disapproval in his voice.

"What? We're adventuring, it's what you do." Desmond rooted through the man's effects, coming away with a book and a golden claw.

"What in the world is that?" Martin asked, taking the claw from Desmond's grasp. "I have never seen anything like it."

"Says it's a golden claw he lifted from a shopkeep," Desmond said, scanning the book. "Guess it unlocks something. Treasure, maybe!"

Martin shook his head, smiling all the same. "We are not here for treasure, we are here for the dragonstone."

"So finding treasure's just collateral damage," Desmond said. "Sounds good to—hey! Watch that thing there," he snapped quickly, pointing to a panel on the ground. "That'll spring a trap."

"How much dungeon diving have you done?" Martin asked, stepping back from the panel. Had Desmond not pointed it out, he likely would never have seen it; it blended in nearly perfectly with the surrounding ground. His companion shrugged, walking around the panel.

"Hopped around a few ruins near Riften when I was a kid. You learn stuff."

"I thought you said you grew up in Windhelm."

"Said I was _born_ in—"

Martin grabbed the back of Desmond's collar before he walked into a hallway. A heavy, bloody halberd swung down, several others swinging behind it.

"That looks fun," Desmond said, eyes wide.

"How do we make them stop?" Martin asked.

"You really wanna try?" Desmond craned his neck, trying to see the other side of the hall. "Probably a switch or something on the other side."

"But how do we—"

Before Martin could finish asking, Desmond had taken a running start through a pause in the pendulum swinging of the blades. Stunned into silence, Martin barely noticed them stop swinging as Desmond yanked on a chain.

"Come on, then."

"You—I—Desmond, if you ever do that again—" Martin sputtered.

"You want the dragonstone or what?"

They continued down the path, keeping a wary eye out for the draugr or more bandits. Fortunately, the barrow stayed quiet until they reached a large open space. The telltale sound of breaking coffin lids tipped them off. Martin swung his dagger around at one behind them, aiming a blast of fire at it.

"Watch it!" Desmond jumped against the wall as Martin's flames ignited a serum on the floor. A trail of flames blocked off the stairs, killing several draugr and burning the soles of Martin's shoes.

They jumped up onto a wooden ramp, sprinting away from the scalding floor and facing down more draugr above. Martin picked off an archer with well-placed sparks while Desmond made quick work of two advancing swordsdraugr.

Replacing his dagger at his side, Martin followed Desmond into a stone hallway, at the end of which was a peculiar door. The lock seemed like a puzzle, the keyhole nothing but a golden disc with several strategically placed holes.

"How do you think...?" he asked. "The claw?"

"Bear, bug, bird," Desmond said in response, holding the claw at an angle to see its markings in the torchlight. "Outside to in."

The pair of them pushed the rings of the door around until the pattern matched. They did not resist being spun around, but the dust that rained down on them while they did so told them that the door had not been bothered with for several decades, if not longer.

"Do we just... like, put it there?" Desmond asked, examining the holes in the center of the rings.

"It must fit somewhere," Martin reasoned. He took the claw and carefully fitted it into the lock. It pushed in easily, turning to the sides on its own. The rings of the lock spun around, all displaying the image of the bird as something fell into place. The door slowly slid down into the earth, the passage open ahead. The two of them stared in wonder.

"Well, that was easy," Desmond commented, tossing the claw up and catching it again before putting it in his bag.

A few bats flew overhead as they entered. It looked almost like an underground garden; plant life and water harmonizing with the rocks of the ruin. A few streams of sunlight illuminated a raised platform, on which was a wall, a table, and a coffin.

They approached the wall. Something was strange here. Martin felt forced to look at the inscriptions, even though he could not read them. What power was this?

"What's that?" Desmond asked, turning to look at the scratched-in words. "You can read this?"

"No," Martin said, still compelled to look all the same. "Interesting, though."

"Right," Desmond said, clearly not of the same mind. "I don't suppose you see a dragonstone over there?"

"No," he repeated, tearing his eyes away. "What shall we tell Farengar if we—"

A crack, then a crash. The coffin near the wall had burst open. Rising out of it was another draugr, armed and angry.

"DOWN!" Martin yelled, grabbing Desmond as the draugr opened its mouth. Sound and shockwaves flew from it, knocking down everything in its path and bowling them over.

"Move!" Desmond ran, skidding to a halt and drifting on the stone until he was behind the creature. Picking up a nearby rock, he threw it at the creature's head. It met its mark, knocking it forward a bit as Desmond readied himself to fight. As it turned around, Martin threw sparks and flames at it. Suitably distracted on all sides, the creature let out another forceful cry. Desmond tumbled backwards, overbalancing and crashing off of the platform. Martin relentlessly cast a stream of flames at it, holding his ground as best he could against an onslaught of some ancient spell he could not name.

Finally, the thing went down, the flames dissipating after a moment left alone.

"Are you all right?" Martin asked, dashing to the edge of the platform and helping Desmond back up.

"Fine. That... that thing. What the hell was it doing?" Desmond asked, rubbing the back of his head. "What's that it has?"

Martin cringed and dug through the newly dead creature's possessions. "This," he said, picking up a stone tablet easily the length of his forearm. On it were more markings he could not quite decipher. What had Farengar said about it?

"Look, it's got those same kind of weird scratchy things on the back," Desmond said, peering around the edge while Martin compared it to the map of Skyrim.

"This must be the dragon burial sites Farengar mentioned," said Martin. "If dragons are coming back to life..."

"You don't think Farengar wants to raise one?" Desmond asked fearfully. "I mean... what if he took a side in the war and used a _dragon_?"

"Do you honestly think a man can control a dragon?" Martin carefully stowed the dragonstone in his rucksack, wrapped up in his scarf. "I would be very surprised if that was Farengar's plan."

"Well, whatever he plans. Let's find the way out of here, I've had enough draugr," Desmond said, climbing up a set of stone stairs


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four:

In Which Martin Learns To Project

It was fully light by the time they reached the outskirts of Whiterun, and Martin was feeling somewhat rested from their overnight stay in Riverwood.

"Where do you think the dragon is?" he asked Desmond.

"Who cares? So long as it's not here," Desmond said, examining the golden claw they had found.

"How can you take that attitude? It could very well be killing people," Martin pointed out.

"Yeah. And so long as it's not killing me, I don't care." Desmond shrugged, still playing around with the claw. "If anything, we ought to be thanking the great beast. If it hadn't attacked when it did, you'd be dead."

"Give me that," Martin said, taking the claw away. They'd find the rightful owner eventually, but until then it would do them no good to flash it around where bandits might notice. "We _are_ going to have to kill it at some point," he countered, nestling the claw safely in his rucksack. "We cannot let dragons attack the rest of Skyrim."

"Why are you so convinced that the dragon attack is our responsibility?" Desmond flipped around, walking backwards to face Martin as they kept on the path into the city. "Look, it'll be our problem if the Jarl says it's our problem. 'Til then, I honestly _do not care_ about any dragons that I can't see. Whiterun's got a wall and a nice guard setup who've all signed up for that sort of thing."

"That sort of thing. The guards of Whiterun are specially trained dragon killers, then," Martin said doubtfully. Desmond pulled a face.

"Jean, look. Either the dragon attacks us and I'll care again, or it won't and it's not my problem," Desmond explained simply. "Whichever one happens is the one I'll deal with. It's not my fault and it's not my responsibility to deal with any more than it is yours."

"Just... get inside, Desmond." Martin nodded to the guards and opened the door into the city, the welcoming streets of Whiterun laid out before them. The streets were full of activity, people bustling about from one place to the next. None of the faces were familiar, and none of them stopped to chat as Desmond and Martin climbed up the steps to Dragonsreach.

"What is that building, there?" Martin asked, nodding to a rounded, domelike building off to a side.

"Oh, that? Jorrvaskr. That's where the Companions call home," Desmond said. "Could probably join up if we felt like risking our necks to go axe-to-axe with every monster in Whiterun Hold."

"Perhaps not, then," Martin decided, pushing open the door to Dragonsreach and heading for the court wizard's office.

"You see? The terminology is clearly first era, or even earlier," said Farengar. An armored, hooded woman was poring over something on his desk. "I'm convinced this is a copy of a much older text."

They seemed to have stumbled into a discussion between the two. Martin and Desmond hung back, unwilling to interrupt.

"...the chance to see a living dragon up close would be extremely valuable..." He looked around, catching a glimpse of Martin and Desmond at last. "Ah yes! The Jarl's proteges, back from Bleak Falls Barrow," he said. "You didn't die, it seems."

"Are you disappointed?" asked Desmond. Rolling his eyes, Farengar held out his hands, Martin held out the dragonstone.

"The dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow. Seems you are a cut above the usual brutes the Jarl sends my way."

"How many people have died trying to get that thing?" Desmond asked.

"Now what?" Martin cut in, before Farengar could answer.

"That is where your job ends and mine begins. The work of the mind, sadly undervalued in Skyrim," Farengar said pretentiously. "It seems your information was valid after all. We have our companions here to thank for that."

The hooded woman looked over the dragonstone with minimal interest. "You got that?" she asked. "Nice work."

"Now, if I can use this against the map, I can cross-reference it with—"

"Farengar!" Irileth dashed into the room, looking winded. Something was clearly the matter. "Farengar, you need to come at once. A dragon's been sighted nearby. If a dragon decides to attack Whiterun, I don't know if we can stop it."

"A dragon?! How exciting!" Farengar immediately dropped his research, his face lighting up beneath his hood. "Where was it seen? What was it doing?"

"You should come as well," Irileth said to Martin and Desmond, waving for them to follow her.

"You think it's that same dragon?" Desmond asked Martin. Martin frowned.

"Which would you rather believe: that the first dragon has come back to do us in, or that there are two dragons flying around Skyrim?"

Desmond paled, and did not answer. Neither option had seemed particularly appealing to Martin, either.

Irileth led them up several flights of stairs, to where the Jarl and a watchman were discussing the dragon.

"We saw it coming from the south. It was faster than anything I've ever seen," the guard said.

"Sounds like our old friend," Martin breathed to Desmond. Desmond nodded.

"For a giant mountain full of bones and scales, it sure could move," he said. "Here's hoping he moves away right quick."

"What was it doing?" Farengar demanded urgently.

"Was it attacking the watchtower?" asked the Jarl with a bit more patience than the wizard.

"No. It was just circling overhead when I left," the guard told them. "I never ran so fast in my life."

Martin's heart dropped. A dragon, circling over the city. It sounded like it was hunting. Was it hunting for them?

The Jarl dismissed the guard to the barracks, turning to Irileth. "We'd better get some guards down there."

"I've already ordered my men to muster near the gate," she said.

"Excellent. Don't fail me." Jarl Balgruuf turned to Martin and Desmond. "How did your little errand for Farengar turn out?"

"We brought him the dragonstone just a minute ago," Desmond said. "And it seems we didn't die."

Jarl Balgruuf laughed. "That's Farengar. But there's no time to stand on ceremony, I need your help again. Go with Irileth and fight off this dragon."

"What? Why us?" Desmond demanded. Martin shushed him.

"Of course, Jarl Balgruuf."

The Jarl nodded. "You two survived Helgen. You have more experience with dragons than any of us."

Desmond's shoulders drooped, but he made no further protest. "We will do our best," Martin said.

"One last thing. Irileth," said the Jarl, catching the dark elf's attention once more. "This isn't a death or glory mission. I need to know what we're dealing with."

"Yes, my Jarl."

Irileth sprinted from the room, Desmond and Martin scrambling to follow.

"What does he think we can do, Jean?" Desmond asked. "We didn't kill the dragon at Helgen, _it_ nearly killed _us_!"

"This is not death or glory," Martin echoed. "If we can at least learn how to weaken it or scare it off, we will have fulfilled our duty to the Jarl. After all, it is now our problem," he said pointedly.

Desmond scowled at him. "You are the worst, Jean. Literally, the worst."

They ran into the sun, heading for what appeared to be the remains of the western watchtower. Desmond let out a low whistle as they approached it.

"No signs of a dragon right now... but it sure looks like he's been here," Irileth said, surveying the damage.

"Do you think he'll come back?" Desmond asked. Irileth chose not to answer.

"Spread out and look for survivors. We have to figure out what happened, and what we're dealing with."

The small contingent of guardsmen drew their weapons and began scouring the remains, calling out names of those fallen or missing. Desmond stuck close to Martin, looking afraid for his own life as well.

"No! Get back!" Someone was lying on a broken bit of parapet. "It's still here somewhere!"

"Where?" Martin asked, giving the broken guard a healing potion.

"Don't know. Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it," the guard told them, downing the potion in a single gulp and stumbling to his feet.

"He can't be far. And if he's got some guards..." Desmond fell silent. "Mammoths and giants you can at least walk around, but how do you outrun something that flies?"

"Kynareth save us, here he comes again!"

Martin and Desmond whipped around as the guard dropped flat on the ground again. Something flew overhead, roaring.

The beat of its wings made the ground shake, its landing toppled the already unbalanced tower. The guardsmen scattered out of the way, Irileth was shouting instructions, arrows went flying as the dragon took off again.

"Make every arrow count!"

"I gotta learn to use a bow," Desmond spat angrily, picking up a fallen guard's shield and throwing it at the dragon's head. It connected with a bonk, giving the dragon enough pause for Martin to clip its wings with a well-placed lightning bolt.

"You are brave. _**Balaan hokoron**_," the dragon said, its voice the sound of the earth itself. It swiped claw at several guards, knocking them well off their feet and into the burning rubble. Several did not get back to their feet. "Your defeat brings me honor!"

"Fall to me, dragon!" Irileth cried, leading a charge.

The guards rushed it, hacking away with swords, archers feverishly loosing arrow after arrow. Desmond, too afraid to go near it, kept lobbing rocks and pieces of armor that lay scattered around the tower. Martin sent a sharp frost bolt at it, catching the beast squarely in the chest.

_**"DOVAHKIIN! NO!"**_

The dragon fell forward, tumbling over the wreckage of the tower and coming to a skidding halt amid the circle of guards. Desmond peered out from his hiding place behind a column of fallen tower, and cautiously approached. He kicked the beast, as if to spite it and check for signs of life both at once.

Surprising everyone present, the dragon appeared to catch fire. The great beast's remains let out a crackling sound as the flesh and scales evaporated off its bones, whizzing off into the air like a torchbug just gone out.

"Everybody, get back!" Irileth ordered, keeping the soldiers away from the burning dragon. Martin made to obey when the remnants of the scales seemed to fly towards him.

The light and power seared through him, leaving a warm, almost pleasantly invigorating sensation in his body. When he looked back at the dragon, it was only bones.

"What... what did you do?" Desmond asked shakily. "Is it dead? Are you gonna turn into a dragon now?"

Suddenly, Martin thought of something.

"What did you do!?" Desmond demanded again.

"Just... just a moment."

Rooting desperately through his rucksack, he pulled out the journal he had received what seemed a lifetime ago, back in the Shivering Isles. The light, uneven brush strokes looked choppy and violent, a little disjointed, but suddenly...

Something clicked in his mind. Force.

_**"FUS!"**_

Power welled up deep within his body, rushing up past his throat and tongue as he shouted the word into the night. The word itself seemed to carry its own kind of weight, sending several of the dragon's bones flying across the deserted grassland. Martin dropped the book back into his sack in disbelief, raising his other hand to cover his mouth. What if... could he turn it off? What if everything he said now was like that? How did this work? What had he done?!

Desmond, on the other hand, let out an incomprehensible holler and jumped up and down, suddenly ecstatic. "JEAN! JEAAAAN!"

Martin shook his head, overwhelmed.

"Jean, you're the _Dragonborn_!" Desmond said, shaking Martin's shoulders. A grin so wide it looked almost painful stretched across Desmond's face as he celebrated. "You! You have the Voice! Just like Jarl Ulfric! _You can kill dragons!_"

"My granddad used to tell stories about the Dragonborn," a guard said, awed. "Those born with the dragon blood in 'em, like old Tiber Septim himself."

"I never heard of Tiber Septim killing any dragons," another guard protested.

"That's because there weren't any dragons back then, idiot," the first guard snapped back, annoyed. "They're just coming back now for the first time in... forever."

"Irileth, what do you think?"

The group turned to Irileth, who was still watching the dragon's skeleton with the wary eyes of a bodyguard.

"Here's a dead dragon. That's all I need to understand." She put up her bow. "Come on, boys."

The little group of guards began the trek back to Whiterun. Desmond bounced and flailed excitedly.

"DRAGONBORN, Jean! DRAGON. BORN. You have DRAGON BLOOD!"

"Stop it," Martin said cautiously. Thank goodness, nothing went flying.

"You've got all kinds of power, now! Dragons don't stand a chance! All the fairy tales were true!"

"They are true not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten," Martin said, frowning. The fact that both were now possible was particularly disconcerting.

_**"DOVAHKIIN!"**_

The shout rang through the skies, shaking the ground and air alike. The sound split through the silence of the advesperating valley, shaking their return path to Whiterun.

_What was that?..._

* * *

"So what happened at the watchtower?" Jarl Balgruuf asked them. He looked anxious, and accosted the group of returning soldiers almost immediately upon entry to Dragonsreach. "Was the dragon there?"

"There and gone and back again," Irileth answered.

"The watchtower was destroyed, but we managed to kill the dragon," Martin reported.

"I knew I could count on you all. But there must be more to it than that," the Jarl urged.

Martin fell silent. How was it best said...?

"Jean's the Dragonborn," Desmond supplied helpfully.

"What?"

Martin sighed. "After the dragon was killed, I absorbed a power from it."

"He can shout like Ulfric. And the Greybeards," Desmond put in again.

"I am not entirely sure what this means—"

"He's the Dragonborn," Desmond said insistently.

"Desmond!"

"That explains the call from the Greybeards," the Jarl mused. "Did you hear it, echoing over the city on your way back?"

"Was that what that was?" Martin asked, feeling stupid.

"The Greybeards have summoned you to High Hrothgar," Jarl Balgruuf explained. "Many climb the 7,000 Steps on the Throat of the World, but no one is ever allowed inside High Hrothgar itself. It is a true honor."

"What do they want with me?" he asked.

"You are gifted with the Voice. The Greybeards are the masters of the Voice. If you really are Dragonborn—"

"Which you completely are," Desmond interjected.

"—they can teach you how to use your gift," Jarl Balgruuf finished. "If the Greybeards think you are Dragonborn, who are we to argue? There is no refusing the summons of the Greybeards."

"We'd better go to High Hrothgar, then," Desmond said.

"What—_we_?"

"Yes, _we_!" Desmond was grinning broadly. "I'm not letting you go up there by yourself!"

"Desmond, it is probably dangerous for you to be around me if I am Dragonborn," Martin lied.

"I don't care. I'd feel safer with you than without you, honestly," Desmond said confidently.

Martin sighed, letting his head fall into his hand.

* * *

"...believe? The Archmage, invading our little town. What could a Thalmor kiss-up want with us?"

"The Archmage?" Martin asked, sorely tempted to turn back and ask for details. They had spent the day traveling, and had finally reached Ivarstead, the town below the Throat of the World. He and Desmond (who flatly refused to leave Martin's side for any reason) were preparing to take the climb up the mountain to see the Greybeards, and settle the Dragonborn business once and for all.

Desmond pulled a face, dragging Martin along. "Magic. Try to steer clear of it if you can."

"Why? What is wrong with magic?" Martin asked, offended.

"Untrustworthy. Anyone who can't defend himself with his own two hands isn't a real warrior," Desmond said distastefully. Martin stared at him. "But you're different," Desmond added quickly. "I mean. I've seen you use a knife. And stuff."

"And how well it has served me." Martin shook his head, disbelieving. "I have known several very brilliant magic users in my time."

"Right—" Suddenly, Desmond turned around, looking around wildly.

"What is it?" Martin asked. Desmond shook his head, frowning.

"Were we followed? You don't think?"

Martin paused. "Why would anyone follow us?"

"You're the Dragonborn."

"Why would anyone be following us?" Martin asked again. Desmond scowled.

"Just... keep an eye out. Let's go.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five:

In Which There Is Blood And Fear

They entered Ustengrav. It had been quite a trek from the towering Throat of the World all the way here. Desmond and Martin were tired, hungry, and thirsty, but they had not come all this way for nothing.

"Why are we here, Jean?" Desmond asked again. Desmond had not been allowed into High Hrothgar proper alongside Martin, as he was not Dragonborn. Martin had ultimately succeeded in convincing the Greybeards to let him sit quietly near the door, a fact that Desmond appreciated, but was not particularly happy about.

"We are here for the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller," Martin repeated for the twentieth time that day. Arngeir, the only Greybeard who could speak without brutally murdering his listener, had given him several tasks to perform, one of which was to travel to Ustengrav and bring back the Horn. Martin had come away with a substantially greater knowledge of the dragons, his status as Dragonborn, and had identified a few more words in what he'd come to call Amelie's dragon dictionary.

"Why are we doing this?" Desmond asked.

"Because I am the Dragonborn and I have to," answered Martin. "And because I am stuck with you, you are here too."

"Well, fine. Glad you enjoyed my company during that wolf pack attack."

"My _knife_ broke," Martin shot back.

"Not my fault."

Martin narrowed his eyes as the door closed behind them, listening intently for any sounds from within the ruin. "Something is wrong."

They advanced down the path, encountering corpses. Desmond examined a few of them.

"This blood's still pretty fresh. This is recent, someone beat us here."

"But why?"

As they advanced further into the ruin, it felt eerier and eerier. The draugr were all recently returned to their deadened state, the blood still shining on the ground from a rogue bandit. The traps were undone, the place empty of all life save for the two of them.

"What d'you think happened?" Desmond asked, sounding just as unsettled as Martin felt. "Someone else after the Horn?"

"I cannot imagine why."

A few lonely necromancers posed them no threat as they advanced deeper and deeper into the ruin. The path twisted and turned, and led them to a hall flanked on both sides with stone serpents rising from the still pools of water edging the room.

"Wow. Would you look at that," Desmond marveled, watching them rise towards the ceiling.

"That must be it." Martin moved carefully forward, on his guard in case the serpents were more than stone. They stared back, inanimate.

"No way." Desmond was behind him as he picked up not the Horn, but a note. "Gods be damned."

Martin whacked Desmond's shoulder in admonishment, reading the note over. "Someone else has it."

"Riverwood? Why the hell...?" Desmond shook his head. "Jean, we gotta get us a horse or something."

"I am beginning to think that might be wise," Martin agreed, folding up the note and tucking it in the pages of the dictionary.

"Let's get outta here. Maybe someone in Morthal can lend us a carriage ride or something."

* * *

The trek to Riverwood was not fun, as it had begun to rain. Martin and Desmond had decided to take shifts, sleeping just inside the entrance to Ustengrav. When they awoke, they discovered that the rain had staunchly refused to let up, forcing them to tolerate the downpour all the way to Riverwood.

"I. Hate. Skyrim," Desmond said through gritted teeth as they finally reached the Sleeping Giants Inn. "Wish I was somewhere warmer."

"Elsweyr, perhaps?" Martin suggested, wringing out a mage's hood he had reluctantly looted from an unfortunate traveler who'd met up with a bear.

"_Any_weyr," Desmond spat, shaking out his hair and sitting down by the fire. "Where's the innkeep?"

Martin placed the hood back in his bag, looking around. A woman in a blue dress was bickering with the man behind the counter about spoiled mead or some such.

"Excuse me." He approached the counter, looking between them.

"Eh? Room or food?" the man asked. The woman clapped him on the back of the head.

"I would like to rent the attic room, please," Martin said uncertainly. The man and woman stared back at him.

"We haven't got an attic room," said the woman. _What?_ "But you can have the one on the left, there."

She nodded to a room along the side wall, just a normal guest room. Martin hid his frown and paid the fare, leading Desmond to the room.

"This isn't an attic," Desmond said suspiciously.

"There is no attic room here," Martin told him, brow furrowed. Had they been tricked?

"What're we gonna do if we can't get the horn?" Desmond asked, closing the door. "I don't think it'd be wise to blow off a request from the Greybeards."

"I do not intend to _blow them off_," Martin said, sitting down on the bed. "I just... need some time to think. If someone has stolen the Horn and gone to the trouble of leaving us a note, specifically addressed to the Dragonborn..."

Desmond shook his head. "That's too elaborate. No idiot would slaughter all those dead draugr we found in Ustengrav just to play a joke."

"Right." Martin sighed. "We shall have to ask around town tomorrow, then."

"So _you're_ the Dragonborn I keep hearing so much about."

The innkeeper had reopened the door without them noticing. Startled, Martin stumbled back against the cabinet in the room. Desmond instinctively assumed a fighting stance.

"Relax," said the innkeeper. "I know what you're looking for." She closed the door behind her, and held out a suspiciously curved parcel wrapped in cloth. Martin hesitantly took it from her.

"The Horn of—"

"You're kidding," Desmond interrupted, peering over Martin's shoulder. Sure enough, the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller poked through the fabric. Martin looked back up at the innkeeper, mouth agape.

"How did you—"

"Not here," she said. "We need to talk. Follow me."

She led the way across the inn again, to her private quarters. Martin and Desmond exchanged wary looks as she opened her wardrobe. It appeared to be empty.

"Close the door," she ordered. Desmond shrugged, and obeyed. The innkeeper slid a false back panel out of the way, revealing a hidden stairwell. "Now we can talk."

"What is this about?" Martin asked cautiously.

"The Greybeards seem to think you're the Dragonborn," the innkeeper said.

"They're right," Desmond put in, following them down. The innkeeper shot him a look.

"I hope so. But you'll forgive me if I don't take your word for it," she said. "I didn't go to all this trouble on a whim."

"We had supposed not," Martin said. "Why, though?"

"I had to make sure it wasn't a Thalmor trap," she explained.

"Do we look Thalmor to you?" Desmond rebuffed, impatient as ever.

"I'm just trying to help you. I already gave you the horn, now why don't you hear me out?" She leaned over the table, over what appeared to be a map of Skyrim. It looked well-worn, had markings in odd places, with notes in the margins. "I'm Delphine. I'm part of a group that's been looking for you for a very long time."

"The Blades?" Martin asked. Looking surprised, Delphine nodded. Whoops. He probably wasn't supposed to know that.

"Only if you really are Dragonborn. I need to be sure I can trust you."

"We don't need to prove anything to you," Desmond snapped. "We're done he—"

"Desmond, stop," Martin said.

"But Jean—"

"Why are you looking for the Dragonborn?" Martin asked.

"Because the Dragonborn is the ultimate dragonslayer," Delphine. "You may have noticed that we need one right about now. You can kill a dragon permanently, you can devour its soul... can't you?"

Martin shrugged. "I-I absorb some kind of power from dead dragons, that is all."

"I don't have time for reluctant heroes," Delphine said brusquely. "You either are or you aren't."

"He is!" Desmond insisted.

"I'll see for myself soon enough," Delphine finished, looking increasingly upset by Desmond's continued interruptions. "Dragons aren't just coming back, they're coming back to life. They were killed of centuries ago, but something's bringing them back. I need you to help me stop it."

"Do you know how crazy that sounds?" Desmond grumbled. Martin put a hand on his shoulder to shut him up.

"What makes you think that?"

"I _know_ they are. Their burial mounds are empty, and I know where the next one is coming back. We're going to go there, and you're going to kill me a dragon. If you succeed, _if_ you're the Dragonborn, I'll tell you what I know."

"Why don't you just save us all the time and blood and start talking now?" Desmond barked.

"Desmond!"

"Because that's something the Thalmor would want," Delphine said, narrowing her eyes. "If you're not brave enough to try your hand at killing a dragon, then you can't be Dragonborn. But I'm not concerned with you."

She turned to Martin. "Jean, was it?"

Martin blinked. "Er. Yes."

"We're going to Kynesgrove. There's a dragon buried near there. If we can get there before it comes back, maybe we can figure out how to stop it."

Desmond frowned. "I know that place. High on the hill, east."

Delphine shrugged. "Good. At least you're good for something. Now we won't have to look for it. Let's go."

The curious innkeeper shooed them out of the room, changing into her traveling gear. Desmond groaned. "We just got here! Can't we sleep a bit before we go dragon hunting?"

"Desmond, I hardly think the dragons will wait until we are rested to try to kill us," Martin reasoned, weary all the same.

"He's right. Let's go." Delphine reappeared, in the armor of a Blade. Martin's thoughts raced back to Esbern, and wondered where in the world he was now. "The sooner we get there, the sooner you can have your answers."

* * *

"You're looking tired," Delphine observed.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," Desmond muttered angrily. They had been walking nonstop for what felt like days to Desmond and Martin's exhausted limbs. Martin wondered in the back of his mind if he would be able to lift his head to face a dragon at all, let alone kill one. "Let's just get this over with, eh?"

"Where is the burial mound?" Martin asked, suppressing a yawn. Delphine looked surprisingly rested; he wondered if it had to do with her training as a Blade.

"Up the hill there," she directed, pointing into the wind. Martin inwardly groaned. This would be a long day.

"No! You don't want to go up there! A dragon! It's attacking!" A woman ran past them, shrieking about a dragon.

"Well, that's that mystery solved. Come on," Delphine said, readying her sword.

Martin trudged up the hill behind her, following a faint ball of light and barely able to keep his eyes open until he heard the roar of a dragon. Shocked into a state of high alert, he looked wildly around in the dark for the source of the noise.

_**"Salokhnir!"**_ he heard. That voice. That... Martin looked back to Desmond, whose face had turned a snowy white.

_Alduin?_ Desmond mouthed, eyes wide. Martin nodded.

They nearly tripped over a downed guard, extinguishing the guard's fallen torch that they had been using to guide them.

"That's him," Delphine said, crouching behind a rock. "This is worse than I thought."

"Shout him down," Desmond suggested.

"No. Let's watch and wait," Delphine said, overruling him. "We can't go in against two of them."

"So let's take out that first one before the second one gets here!" Desmond hissed.

"Stop!" Martin snapped at both of them, trying to hear what Alduin was saying to the rapidly reanimating dragon skeleton. The bones heaved themselves out of the dirt and snow, scales and sinew reattaching and reforming on the skeletal horror before them. His heart nearly stopped when the two dragon's heads turned towards them as the World-Eater addressed him directly.

_**"Ful, losei Dovahkiin?"**_ The words Alduin spoke flew straight over Martin's head. He considered pulling out Amelie's dictionary, but thought better of it in the low light. Alduin laughed at him. "Such arrogance, to take for yourself the name of Dovah."

Alduin roared orders at the grounded Salokhnir, who immediately took to the air. Desmond swore and looted the dead soldier for his bow and arrows. "Probably about time I learned something new—"

"Better learn fast, kid!" Delphine shot at him, racing forward.

Martin raised his trusty lightning spell, watching Alduin's path out of the corner of his eye. The wind and snow made tracking the dragon impossible.

_**"I am Salokhnir! Hear my Voice and despair!"**_ Martin heard the swish of firing arrows, accompanied by more swearing from Desmond as they all failed to connect. Martin conjured a lightning bolt, ripping through one of Salokhnir's wings. The great dragon came crashing down to earth, causing a small avalanche of rocks down the hill towards Kynesgrove. Delphine pinned the other wing to the ground with her sword, launching a dagger at the dragon's head. Salokhnir laughed.

Desmond sprinted out of the way as the dragon reared its head back and spewed fire. The edge of Martin's robes caught as he tried to run and avoid the stream of flames. Distracted, he flashed ice at the fabric until it no longer smoldered.

_**"DOVAHKIIN!"**_ Martin turned blindly and cast another lightning bolt. The bellowing roar of a dragon met his ears, shaking the ground of Kynesgrove.

As the smoke and snow cleared, Martin was greeted with another blinding river of light from Salokhnir's defeated skeleton. Delphine and Desmond looked on in awe as he claimed another dragon's soul for his own.

"I'll be damned. You did it," Delphine said. "So... you really _are_... I owe you some answers, don't I?" she asked, sheathing her sword. "Go ahead. Whatever you want to know. Nothing held back."

Desmond tossed aside the bow, a strange mixture of boredom and anger on his face. "Can we get this over with? I'd really like to get back to—"

"To what?" Delphine shot back. "I'm giving you answers, aren't I?"

Martin thought for a moment before asking his first question.

"Who are you?"


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six:

In Which Martin and Desmond Are Wanted

As they walked back to Kynesgrove, Delphine explained to them the story of the Blades, and their connection to the Dragonborn. Martin tried to hide his guilt as she talked him through the last two hundred years of searching for a purpose, for a Dragonborn, since the death of the last Septim.

"What do we do now?" he asked finally.

"What's next is you go back to Riverwood," Delphine said. "I'll meet you there."

"What are you planning?" Desmond asked, still cautious in the face of this extremely strange day.

"We need to figure out who's behind the dragons. The Thalmor are our best lead. If they aren't involved, they'll know who is."

Martin frowned. That sounded extremely unlikely, even with his shaky knowledge of the Thalmor. "How do we find out what they know?"

"I'm going to get you into the Thalmor Embassy. I'm not sure how yet, but I'll need some time to get things together. I'll meet you in Riverwood, I shouldn't be long."

Martin and Desmond nodded, watching Delphine head off to the west. The sun rose behind them at long last, casting long shadows of dragon bones down onto the town below.

"Sunrise. Time for bed," Desmond yawned. "Think there's an inn in town?"

* * *

The next morning, Martin woke to find Desmond still in his room, probably asleep. He set his rucksack on an empty table, and requested a loaf of bread and some cheese for breakfast. The inn was mostly deserted, possibly because of the time. Most of the Kynesgrove residents were already hard at work by the time Martin had woken up. The only other signs of life in the inn were the innkeeper herself, and a hooded, sleeping elf who had been sitting by the fire since two nights previous. Wondering whether he ought to offer to pay for a room on the elf's behalf, Martin spread out his map, and plotted out their path.

"Where you headed next?" the innkeeper asked, looking over Martin's shoulder at his map as she brought him his breakfast.

"Riverwood, I think," Martin said, paying for the food. "Thank you."

"You be careful out there. Giants and bandits are bad enough, but with the dragons around there's nowhere safe anymore."

"I will watch the skies," Martin promised as Desmond emerged from his room. He passed his companion his share of the food. Desmond wolfed it down, still looking rather weary.

"Ready to go?" Desmond asked, stretching. Martin nodded absently, poring over the things still on the table. He replaced a few of them in his bag, trying to stay organized. It had never been his strong suit.

"Nearly." Martin was sorting through the things in his bag. In an effort to curb the weight of all his effects, he had been tossing out or trading things he and Desmond did not need with the Kynesgrove innkeeper.

"You think we'll ever find out what this is?" Desmond asked, picking up the golden claw once again. "Helped us in Bleak Falls. You don't think it does anything else?"

"I think that claw has exhausted its purpose for us," Martin admitted. "But I cannot bring myself to get rid of it. We should find who it belongs to before we resort to selling it."

"I bet it'd sell for a lot," Desmond pointed out.

"We are not here to get rich, we are here to kill dragons."

"Can't we do both?"

The innkeeper surveyed the table of Martin's goods. "Hey! Where'd you get that?" she asked, nodding to the claw.

"Found it on a bandit in a barrow by Whiterun," Desmond said. "Why? You want it?"

Martin plucked the claw out of Desmond's hands, glaring.

"Shopkeep in Riverwood's been looking for that. That's the Riverwood Trader's lucky ornament," the innkeeper explained. "I heard they'd had a break-in, figures that's what was taken."

"Hm. Well, as long as we are going back there, we may as well return it," Martin said. Desmond looked crushed, but agreed that it was probably the right thing to do. Besides, perhaps there would be a reward. They packed up the things they decided to keep, and set out.

The wind and snow from the previous day had calmed down considerably, and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds as they started back towards Riverwood.

"What do you think Delphine is planning?" Martin asked.

"Do you really trust her?" Desmond countered.

"I have no reason not to."

Desmond shrugged. "If you say so."

"Why? Do you mistrust her?"

"I just think it's weird," Desmond said. "Innkeep busts skulls to beat us to the Windcaller's magic horn thing and whisks us off to go kill a dragon in the middle of the night, then vanishes for some more shady dealings? You can't NOT think something's up."

"Of course something is 'up,'" Martin reasoned. "There is war around every corner, and I hardly think that Delphine is the only one watching her back." Desmond shrugged again, Martin shook his head. "If you suspect everyone we meet, we are going to run into many more problems," he said. "Please, Desmond, stop being so suspicious."

"Hey," asked Desmond, completely ignoring Martin's previous statement. "Can we afford a carriage ride back to Whiterun? That'll at least get us partway."

Martin checked his coin purse. "Not for both of us."

Desmond swore. "More walking it is, then."

"A large part of adventuring is walking, Desmond."

"I hate it."

* * *

They walked in silence for a long stretch of the journey. The day rose and fell, and hours later began tinging the sky with the reds and purples of dusk.

"Do you feel any different?" Desmond asked suddenly.

"How do you mean?"

"Now that you're Dragonborn."

"If I am correct, I have always been Dragonborn."

"Are you different now that you know?"

"No," said Martin. "I feel no different. Just, perhaps, a bit more enlightened."

"Powerful?"

"No."

"Stronger?"

"Desmond, it is not a strength," Martin explained, although that wasn't entirely true. "It is a gift."

"Can you gift it to me, then?"

"Do you want to be responsible for saving the world?" he asked, half hoping Desmond would say yes.

Desmond appeared to rethink his desire for the Thu'um, and fell silent for a moment. "Maybe not."

"Good—"

An arrow whizzed by, crossing right in front of Martin's nose and connecting with a muffled _thunk_ several inches deep into a tree by the path. The earthy, cloying scent of a powerful poison assaulted the air.

"Show yourself!" Desmond shouted into the vacant landscape.

Martin's brain kicked into overdrive. If there were really assassins about, they wouldn't be stupid enough to come out, lest they get caught. Then again, if he was honest, he and Desmond probably didn't look very intimidating. If someone really wanted them dead, they had any of a few dozen ways to go about doing it. And yet, on the other hand, would a true assassin have missed so closely?

"Where are you? I said come out!" Desmond repeated, whirling around as he searched for a sign of life. Martin shook his head.

"Desmond—"

"HA!"

Desmond suddenly grabbed for his bow, struggling with it to cock an arrow. Martin heard someone come up behind him.

"Drop it."

"MOVE!" Desmond shot an arrow, it missed both Martin and his mark by several feet and flew out of sight. A foreign instinct took over as Martin dropped to the ground, grabbing his dagger from his belt and striking at random behind him. He felt the steel connect with thick leather as Desmond rushed headlong at the attacker, landing a solid punch to her stomach. The assassin staggered backwards, reeling and coughing.

The assailant managed to recover in time to get in a good kick before Desmond trapped her against a boulder. Martin frowned, passing Desmond a length of rope and keeping the elf at knifepoint. That had been too easy.

"WHAT in the name of Talos are you DOING?!" Desmond shouted, pulling the knots tighter around the elf's wrists and kicking aside her bow and dagger.

"I'm doing my job," she said through gritted teeth. "You can ease up on that, I'm not a vanishing act."

"And what kind of job do you have?" Martin asked warily, keeping the tip of his dagger under her chin. She craned her neck, uncomfortable but stoic.

"I work for my mother."

Desmond nearly punched her again, settling instead for stripping the arrows off her back. "That's no answer to the question!"

"Did I promise you an answer to the question?"

"Perhaps it is," Martin said thoughtfully. "The Unholy Matron, the Night Mother. Am I far off?"

The Dark Elf bared her teeth in a sorry attempt at a grin. "Hail Sithis."

Desmond shouted incoherently, throwing up his hands and cursing the night sky. "What kind of business do you have, killing the Dragonborn?"

"Dragonborn? I just have a hit out on the man with the Golden Claw," she said, her voice still smooth and silky. "It's nothing personal. Business is business."

Martin lit a torch, illuminating her face more clearly. Desmond swore again.

"You... you're Prentus," Desmond spat out. "You're Archmage Prentus's wife."

"What?!" Martin whipped around to look at her again, as though this would help him know her better. "You... married to the Archmage?"

"You sound surprised," she said. "Sarika Prentus, at your service, Dragonborn."

"This is perfect," Desmond mumbled semi-seriously. "We can turn her in and disgrace the Archmage."

"Turn her in? Dis... what?"

"Maybe he'll retire," Desmond said hopefully. "Get the College off the map for good."

"Why would we turn her in? She has not done—"

"JEAN! This, this Dunmer trash just tried to KILL you!" Desmond threw his hands up in the air. "What else do you need to know about her?"

"If you want him to hear about my capture, you'll have to take me to Winterhold," Sarika said loftily. "They don't get a lot of news up there."

"Shut up!" Desmond snapped.

"What is in Winterhold?" Martin asked.

"The College," Sarika piped up. "And my husband, Archmage Aleius Prentus. He runs the show up in that frozen wasteland."

"He caused the Great Collapse and killed half of Winterhold," Desmond barked accusingly.

"Big talk from someone who wasn't even alive for the Collapse," Sarika shot back.

"Oh, and you were?"

"Quiet!" shouted Martin. "That is enough."

"What's the plan?" Desmond asked.

"We..." Martin sat back, thinking and weighing the possibilities against the outcomes. "We should go to Winterhold."

"WHAT?!"

"Really?" Sarika asked incredulously.

"I should like to speak with your husband," Martin said.

"Are we at least going to turn her in?" Desmond demanded.

"We can decide on that later."

"What's to decide?" Desmond asked, exasperated. "SHE tried to kill us. WE caught her."

"And YOU are still alive," Sarika pointed out sharply.

"BECAUSE we caught you!"

"So she is a worthless assassin," Martin said. "The least we can do is bring her to Winterhold and let them sort her out there."

"When did it become our job to deal with people like her?"

"Let me go." Sarika eyed them not with malice but muted interest. "Let me go and I'll teach you to use that." She nodded towards Desmond's discarded bow. Desmond glowered at her.

"Why should I take lessons from you? You missed."

"I didn't have to. You're welcome."

"YOU—"

Martin shushed him before Desmond could start on another tirade. "Desmond, would you rather set up camp or watch over her?"

"Gimme." Desmond seized Martin's pack along with his own, stomping off to set up the deer hide tent.

"So there, _Jean_," Sarika said provocatively as Martin settled back against a rock opposite her. "You look different in robes."

"Beg pardon?"

"Robes make you look weak." She stared at him as though studying him. "Why the change, Jean?"

"I need not explain my clothing choice to you," Martin said, curious nonetheless. "Who says I changed?"

"Please. I'm married to a man who has books about everything," Sarika says. "He reads. We travel. I've seen your statue, and that shows you in a rather nice set of shrouds."

"I... what?"

"Don't play with me, I understand." Sarika rested her head against the bark of her tree, wriggling against Desmond's knots. "Can you untie me?"

"No."

"You could at least think about it."

"This is going to be a long night for the both of us, and I have no intention of making it easier for you."

"Fine then."

Martin took a moment to look over the woman who would have seen him killed. She was well-built and strong, an ashen-skinned Dark Elf with eyes like blood and a voice to match. Her words, though, made those eyes difficult to trust.

"You're staring."

It was true. "It is not often that I find myself in the company of one who wants me dead," Martin said.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," Sarika said.

"You have no weapons," Martin noticed.

"Not anymore, I don't. Your friend there lifted everything I've got. Tell him to be careful... dagger's enchanted."

"Enchanted? A gift from your husband?"

"You could say that." Sarika tilted her head back, squinting at Martin in the low light. "I don't use magic if I can avoid it, but I can't always. In my line of work, you do whatever it takes. I'm lucky to have my husband around to bring me up to speed."

"Is your husband a part of—"

"Hardly!" Sarika laughed. "Aleius is more... noble than I. But he's no Imperial bootlicker, and for that I'm relieved."

"He supports Ulfric?"

"He doesn't support the Emperor, despite what you may think." Sarika's eyes narrowed. "Who do you support?"

Martin crossed his arms. "I support the ones who need support the most in this war."

"A voice of the people. Cute." Sarika sighed. "Well, then you won't care that my fellows and I are trying to assassinate the Emperor."

"WHA—"

Sarika cackled, genuine mirth in her voice. "Certainly got Aleius's attention as well. The guild is impartial, but—"

"Business is business," Martin finished, horrified. "You would do anything for the right amount of gold."

"Money talks," Sarika said. "Much, much louder than loyalty. Or royalty, for that matter."

"Why tell me?"

Sarika bared her teeth again. "I'm telling you all this because if nothing else, I know who you are, and if you let anyone in on our plot, I won't have to kill you. Your past will do it for me."

Martin's eyes went wide. How much did she know?

"How did you come back from the Void?" Sarika asked. "It's not something you see every day, and here in Skyrim you stand out farther than the Throat of the World."

"I received a second chance."

"To do what?"

"Bring peace to the world," Martin said. Sarika laughed again.

"You certainly picked a dreadful time to try to do that," she pointed out. "Why not wait until the war resolves itself?"

"I did not have a choice in any of this."

"Does blondie know?" Sarika asked, jerking her head towards Desmond, angrily piling rocks on the tentflaps.

"No."

"You're more secretive than I expected," Sarika said. "Though, I suppose I don't know what I was expecting. There's not a lot of history on you, you know. I've only read a book or two about the Oblivion crisis, and they weren't all that informative."

"Perhaps I shall write one," Martin said.

Sarika let out a hollow laugh. "You have to talk to my husband. If there's anyone that will enjoy hearing your story, it's him."

"I am not searching for a person to socialize with," Martin said strictly. "I am here to—"

"Kill the dragon, save the Empire, whatever. You can't keep a secret from Skyrim for long," Sarika said slyly.

Martin crossed his arms, feeling torn.

"Untie me, would you? If your friend wants to stay alive he's gonna need some serious practice with a bow," Sarika said.

"Excuse you?" Finished with the camp, Desmond approached the pair with hate still in his eyes.

"If you want to kill and not be killed, you use a bow. Don't let anyone tell you different," Sarika said seriously. "I'll show you how. I won't run off, I'm too interested."

Her tone of voice sent chills down Martin's spine. Desmond glared, and ultimately reached for more rope. "You're staying here. Tied. Until morning. I don't care what you say," he said, crossing his arms tighter. "Jean?"

Martin looked around. They'd been walking all day, where could they possibly go? "How far to Whiterun?"

"Not far, if we hurry," Desmond said. "Why?"

"We just need to reach the stables. We are going to Winterhold."

"WHAT?" Desmond demanded. A grin flashed across Sarika's face.

"The Archmage might have valuable information for us," Martin said. "Why did I not think of this before?"

"What makes you think the _Archmage_ is going to know anything we don't?" Desmond asked.

"Trust me. My husband knows a lot of things," Sarika said. "Untie me."

"NO," Martin said sharply, his dagger right back beneath her chin. "You stay tied until morning."

"And then we untie her?" Desmond asked, a mix of confusion and fear in his voice.

"She would not dare kill us in the back of a carriage."

"We don't have money for a carriage ride to Winterhold," Desmond reminded him.

"We may not. But she does."

Sarika's eyes narrowed. "Swindled by the Dragonborn. I don't know why I'm surprised."

Desmond went off to pack up the tent again, seeming a little more satisfied than he had been earlier. At least in the daylight, they'd be able to see her—hands and all—very clearly.

"Well done," Sarika said, struggling to her feet. "If it's anyone, I'm glad it's you."

"Why is that?"

"It's not every day I see a legendary thief. Jean Azarath, it's been a pleasure." She grinned at him, and started to follow Desmond down the path. "Not every day you see an assassin of your caliber wandering around Whiterun hold, let alone Skyrim."

"I am not—" Martin stopped himself. Now who was the liar? "You do not know what you think you do," he settled for.

"Don't I?" Sarika's shoulders shifted uncomfortably in her bonds. "Hail Sithis, brother mine."

Martin kept the point of his knife firmly on the small of her back. It was going to be a long night.


End file.
